someday my pain will mark you
by alanabloom
Summary: Alana leans into him a little as they walk, and it feels so familiar and comfortable and right. When they started this thing, over a year ago now, they kept telling each other no strings without realizing they were already tied together, that in months and months of friendship they'd gotten inextricably tangled together.


_Notes: Just wanted to throw some Alana and Will fic out there amid all the Will/Hannibal kink. I love how protective she is over him, he was just enjoying listening to her read, Caroline Dhavernas and Hugh Dancy are so pretty together, etc. This devolved into an angstier story than I was originally intending, because angst has always been my fic default. Nevertheless, enjoy._

someday my pain will mark you

It took Will awhile, after he first became friends with Alana Bloom, to realize what made her so different: she doesn't care about his "gift". Not in any way she lets him see, anyway.

Working at the FBI Academy, he's surrounded by psychiatrists and profilers, and inevitably they all hear about "that thing" Will does. To his colleagues, he is first and foremost a fascination, a case study.

But not to Alana.

Will doesn't know what is that makes her immune to that professional curiosity – or, at least, so much better at keeping it in check – but he's grateful.

He's never told her that. Not then, when Will was tentatively and gradually allowing himself to become Alana's friend, and not now, when she lives in his house (_their _house) and lounges on the couch most nights wearing his flannel shirts and drinking beer while she works on her laptop, Winston (her unabashed favorite, though thankfully she loves all the dogs) stretched out across her lap.

Even with all that, he's still never mentioned it. But he thinks (hopes) that she knows.

~(W*A)~

Alana being a more naturally social creature than Will, he gets out more these days. Tonight they're at a dinner and cocktail party thrown by one of her therapist friends, Dr. Bryan Latham. Latham guest lectures at the academy from time to time, so some of their colleagues are in attendance. For obvious reasons, though, Will's never established much a rapport with them, so for the most part he just listens and sips his drink and enjoys how beautiful his date looks tonight.

At one point they're standing in a cluster of people that includes their host, and in a conversational lull Latham looks across the little circle at Will, and there it is: the interest and curiosity that can no longer be contained, practically gleaming in his eyes.

Will's gaze skirts habitually away.

"So. Will. I gotta ask…"

Before Latham can finish, however, Will feels a barely perceptible change in Alana's posture. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye just in time to see her level her stare in Latham's direction. The anyone not on the receiving end, she simply seems focused on the conversation. But Will knows – and Latham does, too – that her gaze is a warning, and a dangerous one at that.

Will is not to be interrogated. He is not to be put on display like some sort of test subject. He is not a party trick, a patient, or any other object of scrutiny.

The curiosity evaporates from Latham's face almost instantly, and he stumbles rather stupidly through an alternative follow up. "…what's your class load like this term?"

Will can answer that easily, and as he does so, he lets his hand drop from the small of Alana's back, instead reach down and wrapping three of his fingers around two of hers and gently squeezing, a silent thanks.

She smile and squeeze back without looking up at him; her eyes are still on Latham, clearly intent on monitoring their host at least until the conversational focus has shifted away from Will.

It does so fairly quickly, thank God, and soon Will finds himself tuning out the hum of conversation and again glancing sideways at Alana.

He has long stopped avoiding eye contact with her, though it took a long time for him to train his eyes to reflect what he already knew: that eye contact with Alana is safe, that she is never secretly probing him or psychoanalyzing him or, worst of all, searching for some hidden darkness. By now, holding her gaze is as instinctual to him as avoiding everyone else's, and yet this is what he likes best, studying her eyes when she isn't looking at him, when Will can take his time and really notice the vivid, cerulean lantern eyes that have never scared him, not once.

But eventually Alana feels him watching her, and she turns to him, eyes sparkling, a hint of a smirk quirking her lips. He's being made fun of, albeit silently and affectionately: she knows that he does this, the staring at her thing, especially when they're in a group of people who are boring him.

She takes pity on him, though, and within five minutes Alana finds an opening and gracefully throws out their exit line.

When they're finally walking down the sidewalk outside Latham's house, Will slips an arm around her, brushes his lips against her hairline and says, "Thanks."

Alana grins. "For springing you?"

"That, too," he replies softly.

She leans into him a little, and it feels so familiar and comfortable and _right_. When they started this thing, over a year ago now, they kept telling each other _no strings _without realizing they were already tied together, that in months and months of friendship they'd gotten inextricably tangled together.

~(W*A)~

Then the Chesapeake Ripper kills again, starting a new cluster after nearly a year of inactivity, and the day after they find the crime scene Alana Bloom storms into Jack Crawford's office.

Not that there's anything chaotic or undignified about her entrance; on the contrary, Alana seems perfectly calm, the storm swirling only in her eyes and Jack has to physically stop himself from groaning out loud. The woman had been a pain in his ass even before she and Will were shacking up, truth be told. Needless to say, it's even worse now.

"You need to keep him at a distance from this," Alana says bluntly after some perfunctory greetings.

Jack doesn't pretend to misunderstand, and he immediately goes on the defensive, standing up and leaning against his desk. "_None_ of us are at a distance from this case," he shoots back. "You know that."

Alana doesn't falter. "True. But that means different things for Will than it does for you. You know_ that,_ Jack." She narrows her eyes as though daring him to protest. "His head was wrapped up in that case for _months _after the Ripper killed last time. You know what that did to him."

Sighing, Jack reminds her, "Will's a big boy. He knows what he can take. And I don't force him to do this job."

"No, but you manipulate," Alana retorts, voice harsher than she intended. "And you guilt him. He _has_ tried to quit before, hasn't he?"

Jack nods once, even having the grace to look slightly guilty.

For an instant, the fight seems to drain from Alana, her face softening and betraying deep and genuine worry for the first time. She runs a hand tiredly through her hair and says, tone slightly placating, "Look. You know how the Ripper kills by now. You know his motivations, his thought process. The profile is _solid. _You don't need Will at every crime scene, he's not really telling you anything new."

Jack exhales slowly and sits back into his chair, grimacing, his whole body wilting with exhaustion. This case is the most frustrating of his career, and between it and his wife's slow, painful deterioration at home, Jack Crawford has never felt more helpless. "The crime scenes are all we have to go on at this point. Literally. There's nothing else. They're our only chance, no matter how small, for a new lead."

Alana's quiet for a moment, absorbing this and considering it. Almost absently, she finally sits down in the chair across from Jack, and it's another few moments before she says firmly, "Let me work the case for awhile."

Jack frowns, instantly skeptical. "Pursuing _what_ lead, exactly?"

She meets Jack's eyes, direct and deliberate. "Like I said, you have a solid profile on the Ripper. You're ability to understand him isn't the problem: _finding _him is. He's not the one whose head you need to get inside, at this point: Miriam Lass is."

Jack bristles almost immediately, tensing as he always does when the cadet is mentioned. "Excuse me?"

"You always been too close when it comes to Miriam, Jack. Understandably so," Alana tells him, not unkindly. "But she was a cadet doing preliminary interviews for pretty basic information…she wasn't on the trail of any one suspect. She didn't have any major lead to go on. Whoever the Ripper is, she was led to him pretty easily. He would have been a logical person to question. And somehow she just saw something she shouldn't."

Jack studies her, like he's unpacking this. "So what exactly are you suggesting?"

"Let me profile Miriam Lass." Jack opens his mouth to protest, but Alana doesn't give him a chance, adding swiftly, "Just in a very basic sense. I'll need to know everything about your investigation right around the time she went missing. I want to get inside her head, retrace her steps…and see anyone she might have talked to the way she saw them."

After a heartbeat of hesitation, Jack inclines his head toward her, acquiescing. "Alright."

Alana arches an eyebrow. "And you'll keep Will out of it?"

"I'll keep Will on the _outskirts_ of it," Jack clarifies firmly. "For now."

"Thank you."

Jack gives her a challenging look. "And will you be telling about your investigation?"

She frowns a little, hesitating for the first time before saying slowly, "No. If he knows there's no way you'll be able to keep him away from the case. Besides, he'll – " She stops talking abruptly.

"He'll what?" When she doesn't answer, Jack gives her an almost smug look. "He'll worry about you?"

Alana shrugs, dismissive. "I'm in the same amount danger working this case than anyone else is. Will's in more." She pauses, leveling Jack with a serious, intense stare. "The Ripper doesn't have to kill Will to destroy him, Jack."

~(W*A)~

A few days later, Abigail Hobbs (or Abigail Hall, as she goes by now) comes to visit. It's fall break at her college, so she drives into town for the night to see them.

Will and Abigail keep in touch pretty regularly through email, but it's Alana she comes to see first, showing up at her office in the middle of the day, even though they're all supposed to have dinner at Hannibal's that night.

After a few moments of surprised greetings and catch up about her classes and roommate and general dorm life, Abigail sits on the couch that had been customary for their months of therapy sessions, and Alana begins to suspect there's more than idle catch up on the girl's mind.

Taking a seat in her own chair, Alana gives Abigail an easy going smile. "So how's Dr. Blake working out? You're still going to all your sessions?"

"I am," Abigail assures her, but then she grimaces slightly. "Dr. Blake's okay. I miss talking to _you_, though."

"Well, you can talk to me now."

Abigail nods. "I'm doing really well. I'm sleeping fine. I've made some friends, and most people don't seem to know who I am. The name change was a good idea. My roommate even invited me to come home with for Thanksgiving next month."

She falls silent then, and after waiting a few beats, Alana nods encouragingly. "That all sounds good."

"Yeah…" Abigail trails off, doubt suddenly etching itself into her expression. Alana waits. After a moment, Abigail finally asks, her voice tentative, "Um. Even though I'm not technically your patient anymore…does that confidentiality still apply? Like, you can't tell anyone what I say?"

"Of course."

"Not even Will? Even though you two are, like, together now?"

Alana smiles a little, leaning forward slightly as she promises, "Not even Will."

"Okay." Worrying her lower lip between her teeth, Abigail's eyes skirt away from Alana's and she repeats in a quiet, determined voice, "Okay."

And then Abigail tells her.

Abigail has spent the past year wracked with guilt for killing the man in her old house. So she tells Alana what happened. And she tells Alana who helped her cover it up.

As quickly and abruptly as Abigail Hobbs had to grow up, there is a child's naivety in her confidence as she explains Hannibal's part in what happened. "He was trying to help me, so please don't tell him I told you…he knew what the press was saying about me, what everyone would assume, even though it really was self defense."

Alana just nods and nods and nods, struggling to keep her mask of professionalism intact. Her mind skips back to that night, her stomach twisting as she thinks of the implications. She remembers someone strong grabbing her from behind and slamming her head against a stone wall because she came looking for Abigail. The evidence that tied the dead boy to Abigail's friend's murder.

"Abigail…" Alana pauses, schooling her voice into a calmer tone. "Do you…why do you think Hannibal was willing to take such a risk to protect you. Did he say anything else?"

"I think…" She's hesitating again. "I think he just understood that sometimes the reporters, and even people like Agent Crawford, can misconstrue something just because they want it to fit with a case."

Alana stiffens at this, the specificity of it putting her on alert. "Why do you say that?" Abigail shifts a little, uncomfortable, and Alana forces a reassuring smile, saying gently, "It's alright, Abigail. You can tell me."

Looking up to meet her eyes, Abigail says slowly, "I told him I'd keep it a secret, but…I guess he never really asked me to. I just said I would." She sighs. "Hannibal was the one who called my dad. You know, right…right before. He was only calling to see if he was home, you know, for the interview, but…then Will and Agent Crawford thought whoever called was the copycat so he didn't say anything…"

For a moment, Alana can't speak. Something like panic is stirring in her chest

She's been thinking of the research she's been doing into Miriam Lass' case…research Hannibal has helped her with on occasion, steering her towards doctors who may have been connected to the victims. Hannibal himself would have been a natural person for Miriam to speak to, just another name on a list, but he'd claimed she never got to him. Alana hadn't thought anything of it.

Until now.

No.

She's known Hannibal for years. This is crazy.

But then.

It's crazy that he would help Abigail hide a body.

Or was it?

He and Will had always been overly attached to the girl, especially in the beginning.

But the phone call.

Will had been sure that phone call came from an accomplice, from a copycat killer.

Her head is starting to hurt.

Tonight's dinner is going to be awkward.

~(W*A)~

"Are you okay?" Will whispers to her for the third or fourth time this evening.

They're in Hannibal's kitchen, leaning against the counter drinking beer and wine and watching Hannibal show Abigail how to cook some dish or another.

"Fine," she murmurs assuredly, but she closes her eyes and leans her forehead against his shoulder for just a second, the only comfort she can allow him to give her at the moment. When she lifts her face, he's peering at her with genuine concern, and she takes a sip of her beer and whispers, "Just a headache."

Abigail looks over at them and smiles; she'd given Alana a few nervous glances when they'd first arrived, but a few minutes of small talk seems to have assuaged Abigail's worries.

Unfortunately, though, Will isn't as easily fooled and, more distressingly, neither is Hannibal. She can tell he sees it, something uncertain and scrutinizing in her eyes when she looks at him.

So she tries to play it off. She smiles and laughs and even remembers to contribute to the conversation, and every once in awhile she grabs hold of Will's fingers, steadying herself.

~(W*A)~

Halfway through dinner she remembers that the copycat was quite possibly a cannibal as well, as she has to excuse herself and run to the restroom.

~(W*A)~

She stares at herself in Hannibal's bathroom mirror and she almost laughs.

Everything's blurring together. The Hobbs case from over a year ago, the copycat from the same time, and now the Chesapeake Ripper. And she's actually considering the fact that Hannibal Lecter, her one time mentor, Will's psychiatrist, their _friend_, for God's sake, is a murderer? Even a cannibal?

She really does sound crazy.

But there is the matter of the phone call to Garrett Jacob Hobbs. The body he helped Abigail hide.

And then there's Miriam Lass. The lines her investigation were following could have easily led her to Lecter.

But what had she seen?

It's reckless, but there's a strange sense of urgency pounding through her, so Alana leaves the bathroom and doesn't return to the table. Instead, she moves purposefully through Hannibal's house, glancing into rooms until she finds his private study.

She's flipping through journals when his voice sounds behind her. "Rude."

She nearly drops the book, whipping around, startled, to find Hannibal staring at her, a genial smile on his face, his tone light as he continues, "…leaving a dinner party like that." He smiles at her. "Will seems concerned."

Alana shoves the journal back on the shelf, heart hammering, and tries to appear at ease. "I'm sorry."

"I hope the food hasn't put you off."

"Of course not, it's delicious. As always." She smiles, too, relieved at the appropriate benign tone she's managed to settle on. "Just feeling a bit restless. And I'm easily distracted."

She starts toward the door, but Hannibal doesn't seem in any hurry to return to his guests. "How are you finding Abigail?"

"She seems to be doing well."

"Yes. It's nice to see, isn't it?"

"It is."

There's a pause, and Alana's eyes dart toward the door. Hannibal inclines his head and steps aside, ushering her through. "You should put Will out of his worry."

~(W*A)~

Abigail is staying in their guest room for the night, so there's no chance to talk on the ride home or for an hour or two after they get there.

But as soon as Will enters their bedroom, he sits down beside her, eyes equal parts purposeful and concern. With no preamble, he asks, "What's wrong?"

She smiles thinly and wraps a hand gently around the nape of his neck. "I'm sorry, I know I've been acting-"

"Don't apologize," he interjects simply. "Just tell me what happened."

"I'm fine, it's just…it's something Abigail said earlier, in our…session."

Will frowns. "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's fine, it's not..." She sighs. "I don't know yet if it's something I should tell you."

The frown deepens, Will's eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "You _don't know_?" He knows how seriously she takes her confidentiality: he learned that firsthand during the months she'd worked with Abigail.

"It might qualify as an exception to the rule," she says carefully. "I've got to look into it some more, okay?"

Slowly, Will nods, forcing himself to accept this. After a second, he traces her cheekbone with his thumb. "And you're okay?"

She lifts her eyes to meet his, and he holds the gaze. "Yes. I'm okay."

The muscles in his face relax and he brushes his lips against hers, murmuring an emphatic, "Good."

~(W*A)~

Alana doesn't sleep well that night, but she has an early appointment the next morning. Will's brewing coffee and Abigail, her overnight bag at the door, is sitting in the floor of their kitchen petting one of the dogs. Alana can see the unspoken gratitude shining in the girl's eyes when she hugs her goodbye.

Will hands her a thermos of coffee as she's on her way out the door, and she says in an undertone, "Can you come by Jack's office after your last class tonight. I want to talk to you both about something."

He looks like he wants to ask more questions, but his eyes slide to Abigail and, off Alana's look, he just agrees, "Sure. I won't be done until eight-ish. It's my long day."

"I know. I'll tell Jack to wait."

"Alright." She catches his shirt in her fingers and tugs him forward, kissing him softly. "Thanks."

"Love you."

She smiles. "You, too."

~(W*A)~

He gets the call about an apparent Ripper victim, and the first thing Jack Crawford does is think of Alana Bloom.

Jack frowns. Damn her. She's got him feeling guilty before he even does anything.

To hell with it. He needs Will on this, at least the initial crime scene. Dr. Bloom hasn't turned up anything so far, and Jack's sick of running in circles.

He calls Will on his way out. "We got a body. Sounds like one of the Ripper's."

"Fits his timeline," Will murmurs.

"I'm texting you the address. Meet me there _now_."

"Alright. Listen, did Alana talk to you?"

Jack's stops his hurried movements, cautious. "No, what about?"

"She wants to meet with both of us. Your office she said, tonight around eight."

"Oh," Jack relaxes, mind returning to the task at hand. "She hasn't told me, no, but we'll be done in plenty of time for that. See you in minute."

He hangs up.

The body had been discovered in a field overgrown with dead grass that backed up against a barely viable shopping center. When Jack arrives, it's already crawling with local police and, thankfully, the FBI forensic team.

Will's pulling up by the time Jack's out of his car and approaching the body. He slows to wait when Beverly Katz suddenly runs over to Jack, her wide eyes over his shoulder on Will's car. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Jack rolls his eyes, wondering if there's anyone who _isn't_ trying to keep Will away from this case. "Why do you think he's here? I need a lead."

Beverly tears her gaze from Will, who's getting out of his car, and stares at Jack. There's something in her eyes, something shaken and drained, that worries him. "My God, you don't know."

"What don't I-"

"It's Will's girlfriend," Beverly says, and her quiet, somber voice shakes the foundation of everything. The last syllable hasn't left her mouth when Jack's running past her toward the body.

~(W*A)~

Will's walking toward the crime scene when suddenly Beverly's in front of him, her hand on his arm, physically pivoting him back in the direction he just came from.

"Jack's waiting for me-"

"He doesn't need you on this," Beverly says firmly. "Miscommunication."

"I don't understand…"

"Jurisdictional dispute thing, long story. C'mon, let's take a walk, I'll tell you all about it…" She doesn't relish this, doesn't want to be the one to tell him and will not be good at it – she likes that her job means no interaction with the grieving people the victims leave behind – but she knows enough to know that she has to get him away from that body.

But Will abruptly pulls up short; he catches the note of desperation in her voice, and he turns back around, squinting toward the crime scene in confusion. "What's going on?"

"Will, seriously, come on and I'll explain, just walk with me-"

He sees Jack Crawford break away from a circled crowd. Jack looks sick and shaken, and he moves dazedly away from the group, his head bowed, fists clenched at his sides.

Panic fills Will up, and Beverly's voice fades as he walks in a strange, zombielike autopilot toward the crime scene.

His brain doesn't know, not yet, hasn't even let itself imagine a possibility, but the rest of his body seem to. He's sick and aching and twisted into knots, struggling to breathe, and when he gets close Jack's hand is gripping his arm, trying to turn him back.

"Will, walk away, c'mon…"

But he jerks away from the touch and continues. Terror is a monster breathing down the back of his neck, but he still hasn't thought it,

The forensics team moves aside and he sees her.

Alana.

Her skin is pale, her clothes matted with blood. Metal implements rise from her abdomen, the top of her arms. Her legs are detached just above the knee, but laid out just inches from where they should be, like she's a doll that hasn't been put together yet. Most of her fingers are detached. And chunks of her hair have been cut and spread haphazardly across her torso.

A strangled, crooked sound lifts itself from his throat, and Will drops to his knees with so much force it's like someone shoved him.

He's not sure how long he kneels there in the grass, his heart thumping in his ears, his lungs small and constricted and making it nearly impossible to breathe.

He's staring at her eyes. Her eyes are closed and he wants to see them, he needs to, because what if he didn't look enough and will someday forget their exact shade or expression and he'll never see them again because she's dead Alana is dead oh God she's dead.

He is imagining, even though he doesn't want to, even though he's actively trying to stop it. But this time, he's not imagining the killer, he's imaging the victim, imagining _Alana_, how scared she was, how much it hurt, how long she was kept alive…

Will doubles over, the bitter, acidic taste of bile rising in his throat. He retches.

Two pairs of hands reach for him, grab his arms and lift him to his feet. Beverly and Jack drag him away from the body, away from her, and when they're halfway to the car Will comes back into himself and jerks out of their grasp.

"Why…" His voice is a broken, raspy mess, and he's rambling. "Why her, why would he…I've barely done anything for the, the case, it doesn't…it doesn't make sense, why her?"

Jack swings his eyes up to look at Will, realizing: since Will has no idea that Alana was involved in the case, he assumes she's been targeted because of him. He thinks it's his own fault.

So Jack does the only thing he can. "It was me," he says in a hollow voice. "I've had her working the case…looking into some of what Miriam was investigating."

Will swings his gaze upward, and Jack's pretty sure it's the first time he's willing looked him in the eye. For a moment, Will can only stammer quietly, "You, you….you made her… you…"

Then, with startling quickness, Will's face contorts into some wild mix of fury and grief, and in the next second he lunges at Jack. It's the surprise as much of the force that sends Jack to the ground with Will's fists searching for flesh.

Will has imagined this so many times, the unhinged rage, the desire to hurt, to kill, and even though it's never been his, Will thought he understood it.

But now it is his, and it's real, and this is a different beast entirely.

Jack doesn't fight back, just tries to grab hold of Will's wrists, still his movements, but Will is a man possessed, destroying as he has been destroyed.

Then suddenly two of the local cops rush onto the scene and seize Will under his armpits, hauling him up. Jack lies there for a second, catching his breath, adrenaline pumping. He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth and it comes back bloody.

When Jack pulls himself to his feet, the policemen are practically holding him up. He's slumped over, his hands held behind his back. And he's crying. With tears streaming down his face, his chest convulsing with soft, gasping sobs, Will looks so much like a broken little boy in that moment that Jack has to look away.

"Let him go," Jack barks at the policemen, that booming, commanding tone that leaves no room for argument. "For Christ's sake, back the hell off!"

The cops look at each, shrug, and slowly release their hold on Will. He stands on his own for a second, swaying unsteadily, and then sits down hard on the ground, his head in his hands, shoulders shaking.

For a long, loaded moment, they're all silent. Jack glances back in the direction of the crime scene; there's less of a crowd now, and he can just see the dark contrast of Alana's dark hair (what's left of it) against the dull brown of the dead grass.

"Beverly," Jack says in a low, calm voice. "Can you give Will a ride home please?"

"No," Will's hoarse, trembling voice slices through the silent. "No, I'm not…I'm not leaving her."

Beverly tries, her voice gentle, "Will, you shouldn't-"

"I'm _staying_," he insists, the words like broken glass in his throat. "I won't…I won't leave her here alone."

Jack and Beverly swap a helpless look, and Beverly tells him in an undertone, "I'll try to get them to hurry." She shoots Will a sympathetic look he doesn't see before heading back toward the body.

Absently lifting his fingers to his face, Jack can feel a good degree of swelling of his nose, cheek, and right eye. After a moment's hesitation, he walks to where Will is sitting and gingerly rests a hand on his shoulder. "Will-"

Will jerks away as though he's been burned. He doesn't look up at Jack, his eyes fixated in the direction of the field. "Get away from me."

Jack stands for a moment longer, but can think of nothing to say. So he follows Beverly to go talk to the forensics team.

"You know you've just lost him, don't you?" Beverly says when Jack catches up with her, glancing over her shoulder at Will.

"I know," Jack acknowledges. His eyes flick over to Alana. "I guess her owe her that, anyway."

Beverly glances at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"She asked me to put her on the case," Jack admits, a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Because she wanted me to keep him out of it."

"And Will…he didn't know?"

"No," he replies firmly. "And we're not going to tell him. Let him think it's my fault." Jack inhales sharply. "He's not wrong."

~(W*A)~

Someone asks Will if there's any other family they'll need to contact, and he starts thinking about everything he knows about her. Yes, there's family. Parents and her two older brothers, all of whom he met at Christmas.

Her parents, God, her parents call her at the same time every Sunday night, a holdover from a much more debilitating overprotective streak when she was a kid. Will knows all about that, and he knows it started when her third brother, Ryan, the oldest, died in a car accident two months after he got his license. Will knows all about that, knows that Alana was eight years old and in the passenger seat, that he was taking her to a friend's sleepover on his way to a high school football game and that he wasn't wearing his seatbelt when someone else ran a red light. Will knows that Alana got eight stitches and was in the hospital by herself for two hours before a relative, not her parents came to get her.

He knows all about that, what it was like for her and how it shaped the rest of her childhood. Will knows these big things about her and the little things about her, like how she takes her coffee and that she hates texting and gift cards but loves cheesecake and beer and the way she always sleeps with one arm under her pillow. And he knew that she loved him.

He still knows these things, but now they are past tense and so is she. But Will is still here, still knowing and loving her _present tense_, and he is not sure what he is supposed to do.

So he sits alone in the grass and refuses to leave until they've moved her body. And yet he still feels that, somehow, he left her alone.


End file.
